Lost Time
by freudian fuckup
Summary: Aziraphale has been away for a while, and Crowley is there to welcome him back. Written for the GO anonfic meme, prompt was "premature..." well, you get the idea.


"Don't move."

Aziraphale blinks, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light of the little house that was once his home.

"Talking counts," the disembodied, yet irritatingly familiar, voice says. "I just want to remind you of a few things before you act all flustered and surprised. One: you have been gone for three and a half years. Two: I have been here, _alone_, for three and a half _years_. Three: I told you not to piss off the Inquisition, you stupid twat, so don't even think about acting like _you're_ the one that's been hard done by. And four: When I do let you move again, if you do not bear points one through three in mind, I will discorporate you faster than those balmy Spaniards could ever could. Are we clear?"

There is a long pause.

Crowley sighs loudly and shifts into the light, which filters in from the dusty window, diffused and dull. "You can talk now."

"Yes, my dear," Aziraphale says softly. He's not sure this is fair, being harassed for dying in a particularly horrifying and creative fashion, but Crowley keeps moving closer and closer, and perhaps they can argue about it later, because he's just noticed that his new body doesn't know what Crowley's skin tastes like.

"Alright then," Crowley says. His voice sounds distracted and far off, but he's very close indeed, close enough that Aziraphale can smell him—dirt and myrrh and not the faintest hint of sulphur, no matter what the legends say. Crowley smells familiar, like danger and comfort packed into one man-shaped entity, and it's not Aziraphale's body that remembers this smell, the angel realises, it's his very being.

"Do I… ahem… Do I still own this house?" Aziraphale mutters. His key still fit the lock, but it's difficult to tell if this is because the locks haven't been changed, or because he wanted it to fit so badly.

"No," Crowley whispers, his hand hovering millimetres from Aziraphale's face, near enough that Aziraphale can feel it on his skin.

Aziraphale shudders. "Then we should… go," the word catches in his throat, because of all the many, varied, and somehow not unusual things Aziraphale wants to do right now, "go" is not among them, unless it is in the "have a" sense.

"Whyyy?" Crowley somehow manages to hiss.

"Because…" Crowley's fingers are tracing his cheekbones, eyebrows, ears, never touching but maddeningly close. Aziraphale shuts his eyes tightly. "Because this is somebody's home… They might… They could come in… It's not right…"

"Relax, angel. I bought it while you were gone. I know how much you like the view. So, technically, you're _my_ guest." The words are so close to Aziraphale's ear that he can feel the dampness of Crowley's breath. "And what kind of guest would you be if you left me like this?"  
With that, Crowley flicks his hips forward, his spine rippling, serpentine, in the near-darkness of the kitchen, which Aziraphale has only just noticed is thick with undisturbed dust. Crowley must have bought the house without setting foot in it. The hot hardness that grazes Aziraphale's thigh (just for a moment) is the first contact they've had. The sheer, earthly sensation of it erupts in Aziraphale's chest, blooming outward to fill his head and his groin with warmth and eagerness.

"A very rude guest," he hears himself saying.

Crowley hisses quietly, yellow eyes sliding shut as Aziraphale's palm slides down his lean chest and comes to rest against the demon's jutting erection.

It's been a long time, and this new, pristine body doesn't have the muscle memory for how to do this, forcing Aziraphale to consciously recall what to do—how to make Crowley whimper, how to make him scream. The flat of his hand cups and fondles the softness beneath while Aziraphale rubs his thumb along the hard outline above. With one particularly skilled flick against the head of Crowley's near-throbbing cock, he makes Crowley shout a curse word in a language unspoken for hundreds of years, and the demon fairly crumples against him, twitching painfully, moisture blossoming outward on the front of his trousers, still pressing into Aziraphale's palm unsteadily.

Aziraphale strokes Crowley's hair with his free hand (it's longer than he remembers it being, and softer, too.) He makes little "shhh" sounds against Crowley's skin, and Crowley, for his part, seems to melt into Aziraphale's body, pliable and yielding, like a child.

"Well that was… fast," Crowley mutters, his nose digging into the side of Aziraphale's neck.

"I take it as a compliment," Aziraphale says, trying not to focus on his own somewhat urgent arousal.

"My, aren't we self-assured," Crowley says, teeth grazing the delicate skin of Aziraphale's earlobe.

"Are you saying that I didn't… That you aren't a thoroughly satisfied customer?" Aziraphale manages to get out before he is forced to bite his lip against the feel of Crowley's tongue behind his ear.

"Not at all. Thoroughly…" A pause, a lingering lick. "Satisfied… But after three years, it's not much of an accomplishment, is it?"

Crowley's tongue, his blaspheming, deadly, wonderful tongue is doing a variety of interesting and unique things to Aziraphale's neck and this time the angel doesn't quite suppress the groan that starts low in his belly and wrenches itself from his mouth.

"There, you see? I'm not even touching you and you can barely hold off."

At some point, Aziraphale's eyes seem to have adjusted, and in the shadowed moonlight he can almost, _almost_ make out the predatory glint of Crowley's teeth. Suddenly, Aziraphale finds himself being dragged to the floor. The demon pins Aziraphale's arms behind him, leaving him exposed—especially when his clothes melt away to nothingness.

"_Angel_…" Crowley whispers with what could be mistaken for reverence.

A slow, careful lick slides down Aziraphale's chest, and Crowley pauses (only for a moment) to rest his head against the angel's very beating heart. Gradually, it becomes a blur of mouth against hipbones, lips grazing inner thighs, and a tongue doing things that tongues are not meant to do (not human tongues, at any rate). But the pressure and suction and friction is never where Aziraphale wants it the most, never where he needs it, and he quickly discovers that rocking his hips does nothing to encourage Crowley's swift and immediate attentions to said areas. In fact, all it manages to do is brush the swollen, aching head of Aziraphale's cock against his stomach, smearing it with warm, sticky liquid, and making the longing all the worse.

Still, the intensity of it takes Aziraphale by surprise, the sheer pain of realising what he hadn't known he was missing all this time—_Crowley_. Crowley there against him, his other, his enemy, his burning counterpart, the balance to his existence, this wild and terrible creature that he would fight all hell to protect, but is probably destined to destroy in the end. In the midst of his thoughts, Aziraphale feels his body seize and spasm of its own accord, his arms freeing themselves just in time to crush Crowley's body against his own, and he thinks he hears Crowley's voice murmuring lovely, dangerous things into his skin as he rides out his painful, beautiful undoing.

After some immeasurable amount of time, Aziraphale realises that he is breathing again, and that they are lying on a thick, soft cot that most definitely was not there a moment ago. Crowley is coiled around him in a somewhat possessive manner. He pulls a sheet—sinfully fine silk with dyed deep greens and blues—around their shoulders and shivers.

"Told you," the demon says, his voice suddenly low and gravely.

"Told me?"

"Told you you were desperate. Just didn't know it, 's all."

Aziraphale smiles in what he imagines to be a sloppy, post-coital manner. "Perhaps."

Crowley stretches momentarily before wrapping himself even more thoroughly around Aziraphale's body. "Sleep now… I think."

"Hmm? But I've just got back," Aziraphale says confusedly.

"Mmhmmm… And you'll need your strength," Crowley says, the sound half muffled by skin and exhaustion.

"For what?"

"Next time… Next time, it's not going to be over in five minutes… Or hours… Possibly days."

"Days?" Aziraphale asks, his eyebrows arching of their own accord.

"Did I mention the part where you've been dead for three years? Lot of time and… things… to make up for." Crowley's head is nuzzled into the crook of Aziraphale's neck still, but the angel can practically _feel_ the crinkle between his eyebrows—the one he gets when he is resolutely Not Saying Undemonic and Highly Embarrassing Things.

"Of course, my dear. Of course," Aziraphale whispers, tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of Crowley's neck and smiling as he feels the body against his slip into unconsciousness. He won't be able to feel his legs in a while, with Crowley's full weight atop him, but Aziraphale thinks it is worth it. Much like the patter of rain at night and the chirp of birds in the morning sun, when he is away, Aziraphale misses the sound of Crowley sleeping.


End file.
